


First Offense

by NotASpaceAlien



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Gen, Short
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-28
Updated: 2016-04-28
Packaged: 2018-06-04 23:32:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6680362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotASpaceAlien/pseuds/NotASpaceAlien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Demons are merciful sometimes, although they spin it rather creatively.</p>
            </blockquote>





	First Offense

**Author's Note:**

> On tumblr at http://not-a-space-alien.tumblr.com/post/127598794705/it-had-never-occurred-to-crowley-that-his-pocket

It had never occurred to Crowley that his pocket watch should detach into the hands of an urchin, so when it didn’t (to the contradiction of every law of physics that had assured the poor boy the expensive watch would come off when he pulled at it that way) it was rather awkward for both of them.

Crowley felt the tugging and looked down at the little thing, dressed in rags and covered with a year’s worth of accumulated filth, looking up at him with enormous scared eyes, his hand still near Crowley’s waist where the watch was.

Crowley’s arm clamped vice-like around the boy’s arm as soon as he made a move to bolt away.  The demon dragged him away from the shop where he had been browsing and pushed him against the wall of the nearest alley, out of sight of the people who had witnessed the attempted theft and shaken their heads in disgust.

“I could have you sent to the workhouse, you know,” hissed Crowley.  


The boy looked up into Crowley’s burning yellow eyes and saw the forked tongue flicker briefly from between his overly white teeth, and comprehended that he had offended someone who had the ability to utterly devour him--figuratively and perhaps literally--and burst into tears.

Crowley let out an exasperated sigh and rolled his eyes as the boy shook and put his hands to his face, sobbing out half-coherent apologies with big fat tears rolling down his cheeks.  “Look,” started Crowley, but the kid seemed determined to keep crying as though it were his only available self-defense mechanism.*  


* * *

*It was.

* * *

“Hey.”  Crowley snapped his fingers in front of the waif’s face, forcing him to look up.  Crowley was aware that his tinted glasses had slid down his nose as he squatted to get face-to-face with the boy, and saw the urchin was about to bury his face in his hands again.  He caught the boy’s arm, and gave him the least threatening smile he could manage.  “What’s your name?”  


“John,” said the boy.  


“Mm.  A very Biblical name.  John, were you trying to steal my watch?  Don’t lie to me.”  


The boy nodded mutely.

“Well, I suppose I can overlook it just this once.  First offense and all that.”  He had a faraway look in his eyes.  He shook himself.  “It’s a favorite of mine.  I’d rather hold onto it, if it’s all the same to you, although...”  Crowley reached into his pocket.  “I _do_ have something for you, and you can have it without stealing if you promise not to tell anyone where you got it from.”

Crowley held out his hand, revealing a few coins glinting like precious metal.**

* * *

**They were forged currency, of course, because Crowley was a troublemaker, but they were very good forgeries and would not be discovered until they had made their way up high enough that some rich banker would eat the loss.

* * *

When he did not reach out to take the coins, Crowley put them in the boy’s hand and closed his fingers over them.  “Here, you can have those.  Money is the root of all kinds of evil, after all.”  This last part was added in a disgruntled voice, as though for the benefit of a skeptical third party.  He then looked up briefly before putting his head back down and saying quietly, “Do you see that man over there?”

The boy looked to see Crowley pointing at a man with a bob of curly, angelic hair, haggling with a vendor in a shop harboring stacks of manuscripts.

“He’s got loads of stuff much more valuable than mine, and I’m sure he’ll be simply oblivious enough that you can walk right up and reach directly in his pocket.”

He patted the bewildered child on the head and pushed him back out into the street, his left pocket jingling with the newly gained currency and an as-of-yet-undiscovered stolen apple in his right. 


End file.
